


Teenage Torture Session or When Dad Shows off Your Baby Pics

by Calacious



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dad with photo album, Kissing, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prom, memories being used to torture kids on their first official date, photo album
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4584315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is escorting Stiles to the junior prom because the werewolf makes a declaration that no one should go anywhere on their own - it isn't a date, not officially. Sheriff Stilinski wants to make sure that his son's date is on the up and up. A family photo album provides him ample opportunity to get to know the young man a little better, much to Stiles' embarrassment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Photo Album 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am not making a profit through the writing of this, monetary or otherwise.
> 
> A/N:Written in response to a conversation I had with kbeto. This is so far off the mark of what I had intended to write, kid!Stiles with a biting problem.

Derek pins a corsage to Stiles' suit coat seconds after he arrives to pick him up for the junior prom. His movements are stiff and jerky, his smile forced when Stiles' dad greets him with a handshake.

They've got a cover story for this that Stiles has had Derek rehearse for the past couple of days, because, if he's going to be forced to have a bodyguard to his own junior prom, then it's going to be on his terms. And, he doesn't trust Derek to come up with an excuse that his father will buy for this unprecedented event – Stiles having a date.

With a guy.

Except, it's not really a date, and Derek isn't exactly a 'guy.' And the 'guy' part of it isn't the part that his father will have a problem with, at least Stiles doesn't think his dad will mind that his first official date is with a guy. Well, non-date. The fact that it's Derek Hale might be more of a problem.

But, his father seems to accept the lie that Derek is attending the junior prom with Stiles because Stiles asked him to come with him to make someone else jealous – he'd explained it all to his father before Derek had arrived. The elder Stilinski isn't happy with Stiles' choice of date, still doesn't trust that Derek is one of the good guys, but, he trusts Stiles, and that's enough for him. He chalks the bid for jealousy up to teenage hormones and advises Stiles not to get caught up in such petty traps.

Up until this time, his father has only heard him pining after Lydia; Stiles hasn't been forthcoming with his recent ponderings about Danny, Jackson, Scott, and what it might be like to kiss one or all of them, or what it might be like to kiss an older man, like Derek.

Stiles is vague about the person he's trying to make jealous by using Derek. And perhaps that's why his father only puts up a minor fight with him about the whole thing – because he's not in teenage love with Derek, but using him for an ulterior motive.

Stiles inwardly groans when his father offers Derek something to drink and brings him into their living room. Derek takes a seat next to his father on the couch and Stiles knows that something bad is going to happen when his father reaches for the thick family photo album that's kept on the lower level of the coffee table.

Stiles doesn't remember his, 'I-want-to-be-a-werewolf,' phase, but apparently his father does, and right now he just wants to be sucked through the floorboards and into alternative universe where parents don't tell embarrassing stories about their kids when they're embarking on a first date.

Or, in this case, a first non-date. Technically not a date at all, not even a non-date, because it's Derek Hale sitting on his living room couch next to his father with the family album propped open on his lap and an awkward grimace on his face.

Though, well, Derek often has an awkward grimace on his face. Even when not being subjected to ridiculous and completely UNTRUE stories about the person he is merely escorting to the junior prom because of a completely unnecessary proclamation that he made.

Stiles imagines the werewolf standing at a podium, checking the mic first, 'Check one, two, is this thing working?' A wince and then reeling back when the microphone makes a high pitched squeal from the feedback, another little tap, and then: 'I, Derek Hale, Alpha of the Beacon Hills pack, hereby declare that: no one considered pack (humans need not apply) is allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied. And yes, Stiles, I mean not even the junior prom.'

And even though that's not _quite_ how it happened, that's how Stiles likes to remember it. Not that a fictional rendering of what Derek Hale had actually said the other night when he'd appeared in Stiles' bedroom, unannounced, could be considered memory.

But, it _is_ much better than what Derek _had_ said, which was: "No one goes anywhere alone until I've got this situation under control." Then he'd disappeared, and Stiles doesn't even need to make that part up, because Derek Hale is like a freaking magician with how he pops in and out of places. The only thing missing is the traditional puff of smoke.

And, while that might explain why Derek is sitting on his living room couch, it does not explain why the guy is still listening to his dad regale him with tales, completely fabricated of course, because Stiles does not remember declaring himself to be a werewolf and _biting_ people so that he could make his own little werewolf family when he was two or three or however old he was at the time of the alleged occurrence.

Nor does he recall howling at the moon and claiming that he'd met a real werewolf in the woods and that he was, "…'posed to keep it all a s'cret…" – and, his father did _not_ just do a completely humiliating rendition of Stiles when he was a toddler.

Toddler! Stiles, as portrayed by his father sounded an awful lot like something between a drunken Kermit the Frog and Big Bird, and Stiles wonders, for the brief second that his father stops talking to take a breath, if things could get any more humiliating than they already are. Though, to be honest, he can't really think of anything that could be much more embarrassing than having his father treat Derek Hale like the man is Stiles' prom date, complete with the obligatory, 'when Stiles was young…' stories.

Derek's lips move in something that looks like maybe it's trying to be a smile, but Stiles is not quick to label, especially not when it could get his limbs torn off or something worse, though what could be worse than having one's limbs torn off?

"How many people did he bite?" Derek's voice is serious, and yet Stiles detects a hint of something like amusement in it.

"His mother and I lost track of it to be honest. He was banned from the local park for a couple of months after having bitten the mother of some twins on the butt. Guess she couldn't sit properly for a week."

Derek, 'Sourwolf', Hale, laughs, and Stiles can feel his face getting red. It really would be okay for the floor to swallow him now and end this non-date torture session.

"Dad, it's getting late, maybe…"

His father holds up a finger in warning, and Stiles clamps his mouth shut, but he makes a point of looking at the time and running his hand through his short hair.

"Just hold on son, there're just a couple of more pictures in here that I think Derek will enjoy."

The way his father's eyes sparkle with just a hint of mischief cause Stiles to narrow his eyes at his dad, but he gives up on making his father stop torturing him. And, with a loud sigh, Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and flops down on the armchair across from Derek and his father.

The manwolf now has something that Stiles might mistake for a grin on his face, if Derek Hale was someone who was given to grinning, and his eyes dart up to meet Stiles'. What Stiles sees in Derek's eyes – which are now a peculiar mixture of heather, green, and something _dark_ , if that's even possible – causes his breath to catch in his throat.

Stiles has to look away, because in the midst of the humor that he can read in Derek's eyes, there is something that very much resembles the look his father often gets whenever he talks about Stiles' mom, and seeing it in Derek's eyes, when they're directed at him, is not only confusing, but downright terrifying.

"And this is when Stiles was five," his father says, pointing at a picture of Stiles with a wide, goofy grin on his face. He's half-naked and his arm is draped over Scott's shoulders. They've both got water dripping into their eyes, and this is something that Stiles actually remembers.

He groans, because, not ten seconds after that photo was taken, Stiles had slipped on the wet grass and grabbed onto Scott and, well, one thing had led to another and Stiles really does not want his father telling this story, not with Derek staring at him with intensity that is normally reserved for moments when something huge is about to happen – like the time when the kanaima paralyzed them and Stiles feared that it was going to kill his father, or the time that …wait, newsflash, Derek's stare has always been intense, and there's no need to freak just because he's splitting his gaze between the picture in the photo album and Stiles' face. It doesn't mean anything. He's just being polite.

"He and Scott were almost inseparable at that age, and," his father chuckles, "let me tell you, it was no easy feat getting them up and out of that mud – couldn't tell whose arm was whose, and which leg belonged to which boy. Never did find Stiles' swim trunks." His father shakes his head and frowns a little, but his lips are twitching, and Stiles vows that he will figure out a way to torment his father in a similar fashion before the day is out.

"Dad," Stiles interrupts, because, non-date or not, it _is_ getting late, and he kind of did want to go to his junior prom, with a brooding werewolf as his chaperone or not.

His father looks at him then, and Stiles sees something that he didn't ever think he'd see in his father's eyes, at least not as it concerned him. It gives him pause, because, seriously . . . his father really does love him and he's not just been stalling by sharing funny childhood stories with Derek. He's been, in a strange, roundabout way, interrogating Derek. He hasn't been putting Stiles through the seventh level of hell for the sole sake of embarrassing his son, but he's been sussing out Derek, making sure that the man is good enough to take his son to the junior prom.

It's a sobering thought, and Stiles finds his heart swelling with love and admiration for his dad. He has the sudden urge to go over and hug his father, and so he does, because impulse control is something that he's still working on.

"I suppose that I can always share the rest of these with your _friend_ ," the way his dad emphasizes the word friend, makes Stiles think of a hundred different, strictly unfriendly antonyms for the word, "when he brings you back promptly at eleven PM."

"But," Stiles opens his mouth to protest, because that's an early curfew, even by dad standards, and he has plans to crash Lydia's after-junior-prom-party well before the dance ends, and that's bound to go on until one, two o'clock in the morning.

"Don't worry Mr. Stilinksi," Derek says, and Stiles watches dumbly as he and his father stand and shake hands, "I'll have your son back by eleven PM sharp."

"See that you do," his father says, and it looks to Stiles like his father and Derek are in some kind of handshake wrestling match. He's surprised to see Derek wince slightly and shake his hand out when the handshake ends, but he's even more surprised by his father's triumphant smile.

His father pulls a camera from out of nowhere, or so it seems, and Stiles just wants to get out of the door at this point in time. He doesn't need any more pictures to add to the family photo album for future 'real' dates to be subjected to.

"We should get a picture of this."

He poses, puts on his best, I'm-not-faking-it, smile and stands beside Derek. Derek's hand feels warm against his lower back, and his mind really has no business going anywhere south while in the presence of his father. Derek, up close and personal and not tossing him into a wall or threatening his life, is kind of nice and cinnamony, and his muscles are kind of nice when they're not being used to hurt him.

An insane number of pictures later, Stiles feels like he's been blinded, and not just by the flash of his father's camera, but by Derek's smile, which doesn't seem faked at all. It even reaches his eyes, and Stiles' own smile is a little less forced by the end of their impromptu photo session.

His dad claps a hand on his shoulder when Stiles reaches the door, and he pulls him back just a little, so that he's out of hearing range of Derek – except, well, for all of his sharing about how Stiles _allegedly_ pretended to be a werewolf when he was too young to remember, his dad doesn't know that Derek Hale really is a werewolf, and that the man can probably hear them, and that's a secret that Stiles really is not supposed to tell.

"Stiles," the name seems to catch in his dad's throat, and when Stiles meets his father's gaze, he sees that there are tears in his eyes, and it's a little overwhelming, because this is not a date, and Stiles wonders what it will be like when he introduces his father to the girl or boy who has captured his heart.

"Dad?"

And, okay, Stiles doesn't do well with silent pauses that stretch out into what feels like an eternity even though it's only been a few seconds. Especially not when his father's looking at him like he's still that little kid in the picture that he'd showed Derek.

"You know that I love you, right?"

Stiles nods and he worries his lip between his teeth, because this is almost more awkward than what had happened in the living room, and his dad's kind of scaring him with the look of love that Stiles can see reflected in the man's eyes. It's almost too much love, and Stiles wonders what it would take for him to lose his father's love.

"And, there's nothing that you can do or say that will make me love you even less," he says.

Stiles wonders if his father's a mind reader, but he nods, even though he's not sure that if he told his father about Scott and Derek and Isaac, and the other werewolves, the man would still love him the same because he'd kept it a secret from him for so long. He and his father didn't do secrets; they'd always told each other everything, up until last year when Scott had been bitten.

"You know that, even though I'm not sure I trust Derek Hale, I _am_ okay with this," his dad says, and he gestures, flapping his hands in a way that makes him look sort of like a bird, "you know, with your, uh, . . . life, uh, style . . . choices."

Stiles can feel his eyes going comically wide. He knows that he's blushing and, really, what his dad's said is sweet, but so very, very awkward. And, it's not just because Derek Hale can hear what his father's saying, it's more because, apparently his dad knows him better than himself, and he wonders how long his father has known about his interest in more than just the so-called fairer sex, and what else his father might know about him that he isn't sharing.

Stiles isn't sure what to say when his father squeezes his shoulder and then pulls him in for a hug, because he's kind of overwhelmed right now, but he leans into his father, and holds the hug for longer than is strictly necessary. He breathes in his father's familiar scent – gunpowder and aftershave – and then he breaks off the hug.

Stiles kisses his father on the cheek, like he did when he was little, and then walks out of the house, toward where Derek is waiting. "Thanks dad."

"Have fun, Stiles."

He returns his father's wave from beside Derek.

"Eleven o'clock sharp, Hale," his dad calls out.

Once Derek nods and moves to open the passenger's door of his car, ushering Stiles into the car like a gentleman, Stiles' dad retreats back into the house, but he can see his dad peeking out through the blinds of the window beside their front door, watching as Derek pulls out of the driveway.

Stiles breathes a little easier when he can no longer see the house. He wonders how long his father's going to stand at the window, and prays that he won't be there when Derek drops him off later that night.

Stiles leans against the window. "Sorry about that."

"What?"

"You know, the whole, embarrassing family photos and all," Stiles says, looking at Derek out of the corner of his eye.

Derek shrugs, tightens his grip on the wheel, doesn't look at Stiles. "I thought it was kind of nice."

"Yeah, right." Stiles sighs. "This isn't even a real date. I mean, you're just escorting me to the junior prom so that I won't be attacked by some rogue werewolf or other dastardly creature. If this was a real date, then that whole, look-at-how-cute-Stiles-was-when-he-was-a-baby torture would at least have made some sense. You don't have to walk me to the door or anything when you drop me off, that way dad won't be able to subject you to more of that."

"I wouldn't mind," Derek says, and Stiles turns to face the man, because there's something in his voice that simply does not compute, but it sounds an awful lot like he just might be telling the truth.

"So, you wouldn't mind sitting through round two of my father waxing nostalgic about my formative years?"

The shrug again, and Stiles wonders if he can shake that shrug out of the werewolf, because he wants answers not broody tentativeness.

"It was kind of nice," Derek says, and he quickly glances at Stiles, "I didn't really get that with Kate, and…"

"Oh," Stiles sags back against the seat, "so, it has nothing to do with me, but rather the whole awkward, can-I-die-now-please teenage angst that you're looking for."

"Uh," Derek pauses, and then he does something which Stiles would never have anticipated even if he'd been given a playbook with it sketched out for him, he takes one of his hands off the steering wheel and places it on Stiles' knee and squeezes. "Not exactly. I, Erica asked to escort you. . ."

"And?" Stiles isn't following, even when Derek's hand moves up his thigh. "You didn't think she would be a good enough Stiles sitter? You thought, what, that I'd give her the slip, or…"

"I wanted to do it," Derek says, and when Stiles looks at him, he can see a blush of pink rising up the man's neck and to his face, "I wanted to take you to the junior prom."

"Why?" Stiles asks, still not fathoming what it is that Derek's trying to say, because, in all of the time that they've spent prepping for lying to his father, Derek hasn't said a word to him about wanting to take him to the prom.

Derek's just gone along with him and stared dumbly at him, and . . . Stiles thinks that he might've missed something, because Derek's car comes to a screeching halt along the side of the road, and the next thing he knows, Derek's hands are cupping his face and the werewolf's mouth is hot against his, and they're kissing.

Stiles' brain disconnects for several minutes of tongue and lips and teeth and hands slipping up beneath shirts and touching and electric impulses that go straight to his groin, and then Derek pulls back and sheepishly ducks his head and apologizes, leaving him panting and pouting and wanting.

It isn't until Derek's starting the car again, and Stiles' fingers are gingerly touching his bruised and burning lips – can lips spontaneously combust from the passion of a kiss? – that he realizes what's happened, and, that he's essentially made out, in a car, with his date, and he hasn't even made it to prom yet.


	2. Dereksexual - Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought I'd add another chapter to this, and see where it went. It went in a direction that I had not anticipated it going in, and I worry that the tone has changed quite a bit. Hopefully that won't be a problem for readers.
> 
> Warning: Kissing and mutual, through clothing, orgasms, no actual sex. Also, run-on sentences (on purpose), loose grammar, made up words, and just going with the flow of the writing. Please forgive any errors that you may find (especially with the math) and just enjoy (if this is your cup of tea).

Dereksexual

Stiles' cheek and lips are smarting, his neck tingling, and he shoots as surreptitious a glance as he can at the reason for why his body is thrumming like he's been electrocuted, or struck by lightning. No doubt there is brain damage, because he can't think straight, can't get his mouth, his hands, his...anything, to work properly.

It's not fair, because the very reason for his own inability to string together two coherent thoughts is sitting very smugly beside him with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. And that's when Stiles recognizes the boy in the man, the very boy who'd spilled his secret with another little boy, who promptly spilled the beans about the secret and bit a mother on the ass, getting himself banned from a perfectly good park that had the best swing set in town.

It's not fair. It wasn't fair then, and it sure as hell isn't fair now. Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the dancers, keeping Derek in his peripheral vision.

He'd gone through 'torture' with his father showing Derek that photo album at the beginning of their non-date, and now he's going through another sort of torture. One that he'd very much like to put an end to, because what Derek had done to him in the car, that, well, that had turned him into putty, had stripped him of all of the fantasies he'd ever entertained about kissing someone – male _and_ female – and had left him wanting, craving, needing more, but Derek wasn't giving him more. He'd stiff-armed him the minute they'd set foot outside of the car. The car that had sported very foggy looking windows, which, by now, probably looked normal.

"Hey, Stiles, wanna dance?" Scott, face flushed from dancing, skids past Stiles, before catching himself and moving to stand in front of him and Derek. He spares a look at Derek, who, for some reason unfathomable to Stiles, makes a sound that's too much like a growl for his liking.

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says, wincing at the hurt look that Scott gives him. His best friend is such a puppy dog that it's almost pathetic. He's way too easy to crush with a look or a wayward word.

Derek seems to stiffen beside him, and Stiles holds out his hand to Scott, letting the other teen pull him up and propel him out to the dance floor. For a split second, he entertains the crazy thought of kissing Scott, wonders what his best friend would do if he kissed him right there on the dance floor, where everyone, including Derek, could see. He banishes the thought almost as soon as it surfaces.

Tonight's not about baiting broody werewolves who tease the hell out of him, and leave him feeling like a jellyfish drying out on a sandy beach. No, tonight's about having fun. About leaving crazy behind and just enjoying himself for a change.

Though, in all fairness, it's kind of hard for him to enjoy himself when he can _feel_ Derek's eyes boring into him from several feet away, though there are other dancers between them.

"What's wrong, Stiles?" Scott asks. He's shimmying like a maniac, grinding his ass against Stiles' groin in a manner which is suggesting far more than it should, given that Scott's his best friend, and doesn't really mean anything by it. "Derek giving you a hard time?"

The unintentional pun isn't lost on Stiles, and it's all that he can do not to say something inane. It's also hard to take Scott seriously when his ass is in such close proximity to Stiles' groin, and Stiles stifles an absurd giggle that threatens to spill over. It's all rather ridiculous, and he feels much warmer than he thinks he should, even dancing all out as he is, and he can feel Derek's eyes, like laser beams, boring a hole between his shoulder blades.

"Derek's just being Derek," Stiles says, when he's managed to tamp down on his hysterical fit of giggles.

He's seriously losing his mind, the electricity of Derek's kisses are still addling his brain, making it hard for him to concentrate on anything other than the feel of the werewolf's eyes on his back, which, well, technically, he shouldn't be _feeling_ in the first place. It's not rational. Not sane. Not that he's ever been particularly rational or sane, but, still, it's less sane than normal, and that's saying something.

"Translation, he's being a dick," Scott says, and he gets a serious look on his face, which reminds Stiles of a puppy that's got its heart set on chewing up its owner's slippers. He stops gyrating his hips, much to Stiles' secret relief, and squares his shoulders.

Stiles places a hand on Scott's chest when he realizes where this is heading. No way does he need, or want a wolf-wolf confrontation. Derek had escorted him to the junior prom to avoid all of the drama, the danger. He doesn't need Scott and Derek creating it, though there is a small part of him that is thrilled with the idea that, if there is a confrontation, it will be over him. To an overly hormonal, swooning teenager, which admittedly, he is, it's kind of appealing.

He groans as he realizes that, in all of this, he's behaving like the _girl_ , or, in his case, the monkey in the middle, or maybe the banana that the monkeys are fighting over. None of it is flattering, and he wonders if it's too late to stay home, let his father tell Derek more and more embarrassing stories of when he'd been a kid and had even less impulse control than he does now. That would have been far less dangerous, possibly far less embarrassing, and there'd have been no kissing, no electrifying of his lips or his cheeks, or his neck, and definitely no movement southward. Definitely no Derek-eyes boring holes into the center of his back. No, just good, old-fashioned embarrassment at the hands of his father.

He's not even aware of the danger lurking behind him – he's so focused on the whole Scott-Derek conundrum – until it's suddenly upon him, shoving Scott so hard that it makes the teen fall flat on his ass, dragging Stiles backward by the scruff of his neck, like he's a newborn puppy who'd wandered too far away from his mother's teats. And that's so not an image he needs entering his head right now, because, once the blinding, heart-stopping, panic subsides, he realizes that the 'danger' is, in fact, not so dangerous after all. Well, if a glowy-eyed, angry, possessive werewolf, can be considered non-dangerous, that is.

Stiles struggles to turn in Derek's grip, so that he can face him like an almost man. He'll be eighteen in nine months, four days, and twelve and a half hours (not that he's counting down the days or anything, he just knows these kinds of things).

"Stop man-handling me," Stiles grumbles, finally pulling free, only to realize that the reason he was able to free himself was because Derek let him.

They're in a hallway that's only partially lit, and they're both out of breath. Derek's eyes are dark and smoldering, and, for a brief second, Stiles thinks he actually sees flames in the irises. It's unnerving, and Stiles swallows back the retort he'd had ready on his lips.

"It was you," he blurts out, when the silence has dragged out uncomfortably, and they've done nothing other than breathe and stare at each other and Stiles feels like Derek's eyes are gathering little bits of his soul as time drags on. And he knows that maybe, at the most, thirty seconds has passed, but, measured by teenage years, thirty seconds is equivalent to a lifetime.

Derek blinks at him and then frowns, his eyes losing some of the smoldering danger, clearing out into a shade of blue that Stiles doesn't think he's seen in them before. Not that Stiles has taken the time to note all of the different shades of blue, or green, or whatever the color of the moment is, in Derek's eyes. Not that he's got a notebook stuffed beneath this mattress that he keeps that kind of information in. No, he won't be reaching for this non-existent notebook, long after Derek's dropped him off at the end of their not-date, and feverishly noting down everything that happened tonight (minus the embarrassing parts that were out of his control).

"What?" Derek asks, and Stiles finds the way that his forehead crinkles in his confusion is rather endearing, maybe even cute, but he knows better than to utter any of that aloud. He really doesn't want to be flattened against a locker, well, not in the way that inciting Derek's anger would make that scenario happened, _unless..._

"What was me?" Derek prompts, moving closer, eyes narrowing in the way they do when he's starting to lose patience, and how does Stiles even know any of this?

He shouldn't know things like this about Derek. About anyone. But he does. He knows lots of things. Things he shouldn't know. For instance, he knows that Scott will be looking for him and Derek, that, though Derek's dragged him to an out of the way corridor, it'll only be a matter of time before they're discovered, not nearly enough time for the wolf to ravish him against the lockers.

"When I was a kid. It was you I met in the woods," Stiles clarifies, fully aware of the way that Derek's closing in on him – like a hunter stalking its prey. Derek's frown grows deeper, the lines giving Stiles a good idea of what he'll look like when he's aged. Not bad. Still hot.

"The werewolf," Stiles whispers, swallows as Derek stalks forward, takes a step back, and grimaces when his hip slams against a lock.

Derek smiles, and there's nothing kind about it. It's predatory, all teeth and too little lips. More an animalistic grin than a smile and Stiles supposes that's exactly what it is. He has no idea how he inspired such a look from Derek, but there's nothing new about that. He has no idea how he inspires any of the looks that Derek casts in his direction, any of the moves the man-wolf makes toward him.

"You were that," swallow, blink, "that werewolf," _breathe, concentrate on breathing_ , "in the woods..."

Any more words that Stiles might have wanted to say are swallowed up in a kiss that makes the very ends of his hair, let alone his toes, curl. Derek's lips, though they'd been lacking in substance when they were stretched over his feral grin, are like fire, licking at him, and Stiles wraps a hand around the back of the man's neck, pulling him closer, begging for the burn, the flames to engulf him.

Derek's tongue, his taste, the feel of his hands as they grip and grope, awake things inside of Stiles that he didn't know were allowed to 'be' awake. Indecent, unholy things that cause Stiles to surge forward, to wrap his legs around Derek's middle when he tries to pull away. Things that probably shouldn't see the light of day, except, they are, and they will, and now that they've been awakened, they don't want to go back to sleep, or be relegated to the backseat, unless Derek's in that backseat with him.

And, before his lips, his mouth, his body, is relinquished, Stiles knows.

Without a doubt.

Without any reservation, and with no sense of _wrongness_ that he's not asexual, bisexual, heterosexual, homosexual, he strictly, now and forevermore: Dereksexual.

It's a thing, Stiles is certain it is. Whatever _this_ is, this…Dereksexuality.

It's real, and Stiles has it.

Has it _bad_.

_Real bad._

When Derek pulls away, sucking in a greedy breath of air that isn't Stiles', lets Stiles breathe unrecycled Derek-air, Stiles shivers in the sudden cold, seeks out the warmth of the lips, the mouth, the crushing weight that, moments ago, was pressing him against the lockers – 115 and 116.

He blinks, pulls in a gasping lungful of air in a manner that's not unlike the panic attacks that he's had in the past. He's dizzy and exhausted in a way that's as close as close to satisfaction as he's ever been in his life, and wonders what it would be like to take things one step further, if he's ready for that next step.

The look in Derek's eyes – a mixture of longing and guilt – tells him that, ready or not, Derek's not going to take him there yet. And Stiles thinks that maybe that's okay, for now. Maybe it's even better for him, for them, if they _do_ wait, take things slow, raging hormones be damned.

He knows his father will be happy to know that he's not planning on engaging in lewd sexual acts with an older man, a man with a sketchy past, just yet, though he doubts his father will be comfortable with the knowledge that, instead of using Derek to make some nonexistent teenage object of lust jealous, Stiles had unwittingly used Scott to make Derek jealous. Not that he's going to tell his father about any of that.

It's not a lie, not telling his father what happened with Derek – in the car, in the nearly dark hallway, on the way home, _if he's lucky_ – it's not like keeping a secret from his dad, just establishing and maintaining healthy, teenage boundaries with his father. Simple. Somehow he doubts that his father will buy that as an explanation when he asks for details about tonight over a batch of cookies and a glass of milk.

"At least I didn't terrorize the masses by biting little old ladies on the ass," Derek says, voice a low and throaty tease.

He nips Stiles' neck, latching blunt human teeth on and then releasing, licking a path from neck to ear. And Stiles knows that he should be disgusted by this, because, 'ew,' he's being licked, but he's not disgusted or grossed out – far from it.

"Scott's found us," Derek whispers in his ear, making him shudder, making him lose his mind. Not that he's had much of a mind tonight – electric shock will do that to you, make you lose your mind. Stiles knows he's read that somewhere, or maybe it's lightning that has brain damaging effect. As it turns out, Derek and lightning have a lot in common, both are detrimental to Stiles' heart and mind.

"Let's give him something to talk about."

That's all the warning that Stiles gets before his world, literally (and that's literally in the recently acceptable figurative sense of the word literally, and not the actual, literal sense of the word) explodes.

He sees stars – white pinpricks of light behind closed eyelids – and it feels like something inside of him is going to burst free, that he's going to maybe give birth to an alien, like Sigourney Weaver, or maybe, maybe, maybe he's just going to come undone, fall apart at the seams. He grinds against Derek, needing the friction, the feel of Derek's own hardness pressing, rubbing, grinding against his own. He doesn't know what he's doing, never dreamt of doing it like this, in a public place with his best friend watching.

And, before he really gets a handle on what it is that he's doing, hips moving with purposeful intent, he kind of spontaneously combusts, whimpering with the loss of heat, the loss of the tightness that had been building up in his gut.

All that's left is the feel of Derek's lips, his tongue, an uncomfortable warm stickiness in his boxers that he knows he probably should feel embarrassed about, because, they're coupled together in the middle of the high school hallway, and Scott's standing there, watching them, but he's not embarrassed, because it was fucking beautiful, and Derek has that same sticky wetness – a wet spot spreading out from the zipper on his slacks – that he does.

Derek sets him on his feet, and Stiles grudgingly accepts the move, knowing that they can't stay locked together that way forever, at least not in the middle of the hallway. He can see Scott out of the corner of his eye, mouth opening and closing in shock, eyes bugging out of his head. His cheeks are red, though the rest of his face is pale, and he almost feels sorry for him, but there's something else at work inside of Stiles, and unthinking, he wraps a possessive arm around Derek's waist, and says, "Mine."

Derek quirks an eyebrow and gives him an unreadable look, and Stiles shrugs as he turns to face his best friend whom he's loved since he was old enough to understand what love was. Scott gives them an abashed smile and a tiny wave, before he excuses himself and scurries back to the gymnasium. It'll take a night of movies and video games, maybe two or three, to make things right between him and Scott, but Stiles is okay with that.

"Yours, huh?" Derek asks when they're alone again. His eyes are dark again, some kind of silvery glint in them, and Stiles is going to have to make mention of that in the notebook that he doesn't have stashed underneath his mattress.

Stiles nods, completely serious. "Mine," he repeats, and then he twists and turns and sinks his teeth into Derek's ass, which is, well, hard and yet rather springy, and completely _his._ He thinks he remembers, now, why he bit that mother in the ass, why he bit all of the mothers, the other children, his parents – what he'd really been looking for was _his_ werewolf, _his_ family, the one he'd met in the woods that day, and secretly wanted for his very own. He had him now, and, well, he didn't ever want to let him go.

Derek slaps him on the ass, and they wrestle. Derek snags him in a headlock, and Stiles wonders at this side of Derek, if this is what Derek was like before he'd lost his family. Before the fire. Before he'd fallen in love the first time.

Derek kisses him and then lets him go, and there's a smile on his face. An honest-to-goodness smile. It makes Stiles smile. Derek slings an arm across his shoulders and Stiles snakes one around his waist.

"Time to go, Cinderella," Derek says, ruffling his hair.

Stiles frowns. "But it's only ten fifteen. We don't need to be back until…"

Derek blows on his ear and sucks on the lobe. Stiles starts leading the way to the car, understanding dawning quickly. Forty-five minutes, give or take ten for driving time, to make out with Derek before he's got to face his father, and the dreaded photo album again – there are at least two more of them that Stiles hopes his father has forgotten about, but with his luck, his father already has them lined up on the coffee table, waiting for their return.


End file.
